


Wet Hot American Summer

by dansunedisco



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Case Fic, Florida, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Military, Minor Character Death, Murder, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock first meet in Miami, when John is training alongside US Armed Forces, and Sherlock is ensuring Mr Hudson’s execution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet Hot American Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sherlockmas 2013 Summer Fest](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com). Prompt was "chance encounter abroad".
> 
> 1\. Suspended belief is requested for this story in regards to British/US Armed Forces training integration.
> 
> 2\. Case fic, with homophobia and Mr Hudson being a pretty terrible human being. Seriously.
> 
> 3\. Both Sherlock and John are ~10 years younger than when they first meet in Sherlock BBC.
> 
> Many thanks to [SwissMarg](http://swissmarg.livejournal.com) for the beta!

The muzzle of a gun poked him between his shoulder blades. John wasn’t sure if he should've been chuffed that he instinctively knew the sensation, or if he ought to be distressed. 

“Raise your arms, get on your knees, and cross your ankles.”

John cursed under his breath, then raised his arms cautiously.

The hangar deck he and his assailant were in was nearly pitch black, save for a red safety light affixed to the side wall every ten feet that cast a rather sinister glow on the whole operation. There were three emergency exits in sight, but all, unfortunately, too far away to make a dash. To make a bad situation even worse, the hangar doors were shut, and a security rove wasn't scheduled for another half-hour.

Just enough time to kill him and hide the evidence.

Perfect.

Adrenaline coursed through John’s veins, steadying his focus and allowing a list of _disarm, redirect, maim_ scenarios to fly through his brain, but there was admittedly little he could do but follow the directions given. As an added plus, it was the course least likely to end with his spine blown to bits.

It didn’t take a genius to realise that.

Speaking of geniuses, thought John, as he slowly lowered himself to his knees: where was his purported back-up? 

John’s assailant prodded him with the gun. “Where is Holmes?” It was as if he read John’s mind.

“Off frolicking, I’d imagine,” replied John.

The man knocked the gun above John’s ear none too gently. White stars burst behind his eyelids and he grunted in pain, but John impressed himself by staying upright.

Suffice to say: sarcasm was a bit not good.

“Should I repeat myself?”

“I don’t know where he is,” John ground out through gritted teeth.

“Pity,” was the reply. “It was a pleasure, but I'm afraid you’ve got to go.”

He was rather polite, thought John, though a touch cryptic.

But where he meant to take John became clear as crystal when he heard the safety click off. 

_Oh._

John’s ears rang then, a tinny sound that announced the distinct mark-up in his adrenaline levels. He was frozen in position, a cold, sour sweat breaking out under his armpits and over his hairline. He needed to move, he needed to fight back, but-- he was stuck between a gun and a hard place. His arms trembled. Whether from fear or strain, well, it hardly mattered now.

One pull on the trigger, and it would all be over. 

Executed in a hangar bay in Florida was not how John had imagined he’d go.

If only he hadn’t gone out drinking with the American boys. He would have been in his barracks room. Taking a nap, perhaps. Enjoying the sparse leave and liberty he’d been allotted, at the least. 

He’d always wanted to see why everyone kicked up such a fuss over Disney World.

Now, well-- he was about to die.

_Please, God, let me live._

* * *

 

Life flashing before your eyes?

Yeah, not quite. That turn of phrase was more than a little misleading. 

It was a rapid rewind that spat John out precisely one week before the bullet was discharged.

 

* * *

 

“How’s America, Johnny? The Yanks treating you well? No hard feelings?” 

“It’s fine, Harry. Everything’s fine. Everyone’s… nice.”

“Hm, well, don't ask about _me_ …”

“Sorry, sorry--how are you? How are things with… um?”

“For God’s sake, her name is _Simone._ You’ve met her a time or two, you arse. And we’re well. We’ve seen a therapist about the fighting, and we’re on the up and up.”

“And the other vice?”

“Oh, little brother... you know it’s not really a problem. I can stop any time, more or less.”

“That's not how it works.”

“Not this again. You don't even _know_ —”

“I damn well _do_ know—” 

Their stilted conversation boiled over into a full-on row after that, and John hardly remembered what was said (or screamed) before Harry hung up. John tossed his mobile onto his small writing desk, hardly caring to be gentle at that moment. It was a cheap prepaid thing, anyway—and it wasn't like he was calling anyone he _really_ wanted to converse with.

It always amazed John that could go from tranquil to berserk in three seconds flat, when Harry was around to instigate.

 

* * *

 

His door slammed opened an hour after he got off the phone with Harry.

“Fuck me sideways, Watson! We’re getting it good tomorrow,” grumbled Ensign Ramirez. He threw his eight-point cap across their sleeping quarters, and flopped unceremoniously onto his rickety cot. “A rucksack march at four in the morning... I swear to God. I should’ve became an accountant.”

John smirked, still amused by the 'bitching and moaning' of American troops. In this case specifically: a disgruntled sailor.

“Don’t give me that look,” sniped Ramirez. 

“No look, mate,” said John. He dipped his cloth-covered index finger into the tin of polish and rubbed the black gunk onto his boots in methodical, circular motions. “I’m just surprised to see you gung-ho types so put out by a little exercise.” 

“Piss off, as you so love to say. PT is fine by me, but I’m a sailor. I don’t do nature hikes with fifty pounds of gear. That's for grunts like you.”

“Fifty pounds... What’s that in kilograms?” asked John, faux confusion coating his words.

Ramirez opened his mouth, then clicked it shut. “You ain’t funny, dude.”

John smiled in reply, and continued shining his boots.

Ramirez grabbed his cap from the corner he'd tossed it into previously, and marched out. He looked angry, but John knew it was mostly for show. The two of them had been bunking together for the past three weeks of the Joint Forces Special Operations training in Florida, and their friendship revolved around keeping up the illusion that they weren't friendly at all.

John was the only one from the Fighting Fusiliers to take the trip to Florida, having been volunteered by his CO for “exemplary behaviour” and “superior discipline” (statements he would _never_ live down). There were a few infantrymen running around, though none John knew personally. There were more Canadians and Americans than anything else, which surprised no one at all. The operation was touted as a “global training exercise”, but felt more like a pissing contest. Still, John liked his bunkmate well enough, and found his diatribes endearing… half the time.

John blew out a heavy breath, as he remembered why Ramirez had tromped back to their room in the first place.

A fight with Harry, and now a march before a proper breakfast, he thought crossly. Damn.

 

* * *

 

The heat.

Christ, the heat. 

The Florida sunshine pounded over John's head and neck, and the threadbare scarf he’d tucked between his vest and blouse did nothing to keep him cool. Ramirez had sworn by the trick. At this point, however, John thought the sailor might have been having him on. 

The morning had transpired as John had been forewarned. The men in the barracks were woken nice and early, hours before the sun was scheduled to rise. The humidity had been stifling then, but not yet worrisome. Now, however, the moisture in the air was kicking John's arse left and right.

According to the rest of the blokes, this was regular Key West, Florida weather. Humid beyond compare, and hot enough to fry one’s brain. It wouldn’t have been so terrible if they hadn’t been required to wear fatigues with the sleeves rolled down, buttons buttoned, flak jackets on, and rucks up. Sweat rolled down John’s back in a steady stream; he’d already gone through most of his canteen. Only the warm dregs were left, which he sipped sparingly. 

Worse yet, everyone kept repeating the phrase ‘ _you’ll get used to the heat’_ over and over, though John never once complained. He was an ambassador of sorts for the RAMC, and he’d be damned if he bemoaned his situation. Verbally, at least. The Americans didn’t need more ammunition to launch his way, and collapsing on a ‘warm-up’ march was akin to handing them a grenade with the pin already pulled. He’d been through worse gruff, besides. But did Florida really have to insist on 90% humidity?

Two solid hours and a wicked sunburn later, Ramirez trotted up behind John and pointed towards an airfield in the distance where three Chinook helicopters were warming up. “I neglected to tell you this yesterday, but we’re doing a drop.”

“Really,” replied John flatly, though he really meant ‘ _piss off’_. “Isn't further training required for that?”

Ramirez grinned ear to ear. “Just death by Powerpoint if you do it tandem.” 

Which was how, two hours later, John found himself strapped to a burly US Army sergeant who assured him they would die on impact if both chutes failed.

 

* * *

 

There was something to jumping out of a helicopter, John soon discovered. The free fall was exhilarating, as was the view. It felt like all of Florida could be seen from his aerial vantage point. The waters below were deep blue, with patches of turquoise and aquamarine shining through like lights below the surface. A pristine white beach lined the coast. Waves broke over a sandbar close to shore. 

Peaceful was the only word for it, John decided.

“You feelin’ it?” screamed the sergeant right into John’s ear.

John couldn’t look back, and his words would get lost in the wind. So he scrunched his hand into a fist, his thumb popping out in the well-known signal of ‘everything’s fine’.

Their landing was seamless. Once unstrapped, John felt the tremors of the thrill through his entire body. He grinned and gloated, and was slapped heartily on the back. The euphoria was enough to make him agree to the road trip Ramirez and a few of the other American boys suggested up to Miami, as they were riding the bus back towards base.

“Let's get into trouble,” said Smith, another Navy man.

John only laughed; how much trouble could he get into in the course of 96 hours of liberty?

 

* * *

 

“Business or pleasure?" 

The bar was crawling with people. John had had to elbow his way in to reach the bartender. But it was difficult to believe the baritone drawl to his left was for anyone but him. Like attracted like, after all, and there weren’t too many Englishmen afoot in South Beach.

John raked his eyes over the other man as subtly as possible, wondering if GQ had chosen this dive for their on-location shoot. Tousled black curls, unusual coloured eyes, and his _cheekbones_. A posh toff like him stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the white linen shirts and bikinis.

“Sorry?” he asked politely.

“It’s a rhetorical question, often used as an icebreaker.” The man hummed thoughtfully. “Clearly, you are here on business, though it’s not a suit and tie affair, judging by your current attire and calloused left thumb. I would venture to say: British Army, and recently airborne.”

John sputtered, astonishment and suspicion all rolled into one choked-off sound. “Did Ramirez put you up to this?”

“Up to what?”

John gestured between them. “Did he tell you all of that? Have you come over here to weird me out?” 

“Is that normal behaviour? Bizarre," the man deadpanned.

John looked over his shoulder to the table where his group was sitting. They weren’t paying him any mind. Either they were practicing the art of subterfuge for the greater good of giving John the willies, or the other man was naturally some sort of stalker-type. “Well, I don’t know how you did that, but you were spot on.”

The man’s mouth twitched up into a predatory smile. “I usually am.”

Though John made it a policy to stay far away from those with large egos, he felt an unexplainable compulsion to make an exception for this particular stranger. He reached out for a handshake. “John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Pleasure. So, why a solider at work and not, say, a Miami tourist who happens to be in the service?”

“When you paid for your pint, I spied the identification card in your wallet, as well as a plane ticket stub from your flight three weeks ago,” explained the man – Sherlock – as if it were the most obvious clue in the world, and not at all worrying that he was peeking in other people’s wallets. “Of course, you _could_ be on holiday, but you’ve been in uniform nearly every day since you arrived. You have tanlines around your wrists and eyes. There’s irritation on the back of your neck that indicates a disc chain. It could be from a rather garish necklace, but you don’t wear jewellery. Tanlines and irritation, plane ticket, together with the ID, gives us the obvious answer: British Army, here on business.”

“Wow,” remarked John, thoroughly impressed. “That’s—that was brilliant.”

A flash of an unidentifiable emotion crossed Sherlock’s face, but slipped it away as quickly as it had appeared. “Thank you.” 

“So. What are you doing here if not to deconstruct my entire life?” asked John. He quickly held up his hand, though Sherlock didn’t look like he was raring to answer. “Wait, wait, let me have a go. You’re a... businessman from Montenegro who really, _really_ enjoys piña coladas.”

“Or British soldiers,” clarified Sherlock, his voice a pitch lower than it had been previously.

John felt the temperature of the bar rise a degree or two under the weight of Sherlock’s stare--it was more of a deliberate scrutiny, really. Like he was peeling back layers upon layers, all with a once-over. His pale eyes roved along John’s body, stopping a beat longer than necessary at the crotch of his trousers. John’s flush was sudden and immediate, and when Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s, he felt like he’d marched right into a carefully planned trap. 

It was odd, being on the other end of a chat-up. The feeling was further hammered home as Sherlock smirked like the cat who got the cream, leaning in further to impress upon John the understated scent of his undoubtedly high-priced cologne.

There was no way Sherlock was seriously propositioning him. _John Watson_. He was handsome enough, in a wholesome sort of way, but this Sherlock Holmes was in a league of his own. And yet here the two of them were. Elbows on a sticky bar-top, a rapidly warming beer in John’s hand, _A Lo Cubano_ playing on the overhead speakers, and white-sand beaches a short walk away. The possibilities and all their consequences made something bloom deep within John’s chest... though it might’ve been the three margaritas he’d consumed earlier finally taking effect.

He badly wanted to look towards Ramirez to see if he was rolling on the ground and laughing, to confirm that siccing Sherlock on him really _had_ been a gag, but John was helplessly trapped by Sherlock’s heated gaze, and his own rapidly growing desire. 

John was one part flattered, one part curious, but mostly unsure on how to proceed. Aside from several experiences with a few blokes in uni (purely experimental, of course), John had remained strictly heterosexual. But it was hard to deny that he wasn’t at least a _little_ attracted to Sherlock, both his brains, and, if he was perfectly honest, his body. He was on _holiday_ (sort of) for Christ’s sake. He could just give his group the slip, fake a headache or, hell, just walk out...

“Uhm,” stammered John, and nearly slapped himself for all his grace. 

“Shall we change your holiday plans, John?” purred Sherlock.

Sherlock pushed off into the crowd, then out the door, without looking back to see if John was following. And if he hadn’t been intrigued before, well, he was now.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t end up going very far at all, in the end.

Sherlock yanked John into the alleyway behind the bar, and shoved him up against the stucco-covered bricks.

It was dark outside, sunset having been several hours ago. The chances of being seen were slim to none, but there was just enough light and noise to make John’s neck prickle in heady anticipation. If someone came around back, if someone looked down from their hotel room—he and Sherlock would be caught in the act. 

It was not sensible, nor did it reflect well on his psyche that that was the sexiest mental image he’d had in a long time, but John had no time to protest before Sherlock was on him, long limbs crowding John’s personal space, trapping him against the wall.

Sherlock pressed a rough kiss to the side of John’s mouth, one hand cupping John’s jaw, the other stroking John through his trousers. John lifted his hands to rest on Sherlock’s back, flexing his grip each time a wave of pleasure rolled through him from the simplest, most primal of touches. He angled his face to catch Sherlock’s mouth properly, moving his hands to drag Sherlock down further, darting his tongue out to trace a wet line along Sherlock’s lower lip.

It was electric. Everywhere Sherlock touched, John burned, and he knew he wouldn’t last long if Sherlock kept up with—John shuddered—whatever he was doing.

The kissing was rough and sloppy; too many teeth, too much tongue, but God, if John wasn’t already weak in the knees for it. He felt like he was sixteen again, snogging his first real girlfriend, where any touch felt like it would be the end of him.

Sherlock pulled away suddenly, his soft breaths puffing against John’s cheek. He dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand, then settled onto his knees. John let out an obscene groan. The picture of Sherlock looking up at him while undoing his zip was almost enough to finish him right then and there.

Sherlock snaked his hand into John’s pants, a look of pure concentration settling onto his handsome face, and John knew he really was in fear of making an utter fool of himself. Sherlock pulled his cock three times, eyebrow twitching upwards on each go, as if experimenting which technique made John moan the loudest. Finally, he settled into a swift rhythm, his grip firm but not choking, and it was so close to how John pleasured himself it was uncanny.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, eyes clenched shut. How had he gotten so lucky?

“John,” responded Sherlock, and just the sound of his voice was enough. John spilled over Sherlock’s hand, a bitten off groan rattling in his chest, and he desperately wished he had a stopwatch to convince himself he really didn’t finish from a handjob in under sixty seconds.

“Christ,” breathed John. “That was something else. Um, do you want me to—?” 

Sherlock rose from his kneeling position, and wiped his hand on a tissue he procured from his pocket. “Not necessary,” he said, then paused in mid-motion, as if pondering some great question. 

“This might be my cue, then,” said John, when the silence stretched out far too long. There was no shame in realising whatever was between them was a one night, back alley deal—just like there was no shame in the slow plummet of his gut when he realised he would never see Sherlock again.

Sherlock snapped back to reality just as John was about to flee the scene.

“My hotel is down the strip,” said Sherlock, eyes shining with a new fervour. “I have something I’d like to show you.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s hotel room was trashed. No, _trashed_ was not quite the right word. It was cluttered—cluttered beyond belief.

Stacks of books, papers, and knickknacks covered all flat surfaces. Several take-away boxes sat open by the telly, untouched save for a bite or two. The lack of hotel-enforced cleanliness came as no surprise, however. A “do not disturb” sign hung on the doorknob outside. John sent a silent prayer up for the maid who would be in charge of cleaning afterwards.

Sherlock guided him into the room, his hand hovering over John's lower back. As soon as John passed the threshold, Sherlock darted in. John stood frozen in the middle of the mess, feeling like he'd been smacked upside the head, and watched his new acquaintance go about his business. Gone were the seductive glances and innuendo; the Sherlock Holmes he'd met at the bar was replaced with someone entirely different.

“Have you been here long?” asked John, awkwardly shuffling a pile of newspaper clippings off the couch while Sherlock stomped around the room. John sat in the cleared area, his libido effectively gone in light of the mess and Sherlock’s newly frigid demeanor.

Sherlock’s stomping turned into a whirlwind. He picked things up, put them down, or threw them over his shoulder. “Do you always ask questions to which the answers are glaringly obvious?”

“Sometimes,” replied John, letting Sherlock’s scathing tone slip off his back. “Maybe you’d fit all this junk into your suitcase for a weekend trip. Can’t ever leave home without your skull.”

John meant it as an insult of sorts, but it fell flat as there was, in actuality, a very Shakespearean skull on the telly stand.

Sherlock fixed him with a curious look then, tilting his head to the side as if he didn’t know if John was really _that_ stupid, or if he was being sarcastic. Then, without warning, he went back to digging through his belongings.

“Ah! Look at this,” said Sherlock.

He tossed something at John, who caught it out of the air in reflex.

It was a leather wallet. A wallet that was _not_ the one Sherlock had produced to pay for the cab they’d taken earlier. 

John swallowed thickly, hands tightening on the wallet in his hands, realising he might have misstepped terribly. He was in a foreign country, in a foreign city, with a man who very well could have had intentions of skinning John alive and wearing his bollocks on a fancy hat.

No matter how polished Sherlock looked, no matter how educated he sounded, no matter how skilled he was (or could be) in various sexual acts, John didn’t know him from Adam. 

And yet Sherlock knew plenty about him. How?

John’s brain slowly raised a red flag on the entire situation, memories of _American Psycho_ not-so-helpfully making a case to run away, but the thrill of danger had John’s skin tingling in a rather pleasant way. John was remiss to admit that he had a reputation with the blokes back home of being an adrenaline-junkie of sorts, and going home with a random he’d met at a bar ultimately fit the bill.

So what if Sherlock’s hotel room looked like a ferret’s hidey-hole? He was gorgeous, smart, and a little eccentric if the room was any indication, and furthermore: no one in all of England had to know John didn’t automatically run screaming from the mess.

Especially if Sherlock was going to chop him into little teeny-tiny pieces.

Yes, perhaps he’d made a bad decision, but at least it was an _exciting_ one. 

Sherlock pumped his hands up in the air, and threw his head back in exasperation. “Oh, don’t be so transparent! I didn’t bring you here to _kill_ you, John. How would I ever dispose of the body from twelve stories up? You can surmise I’ve been at this locale for weeks, if not months—it would be a hassle to clean up and move without being detected. Furthermore, why would I show my hand so soon? Giving you the wallet of _my last victim_? Dull!” 

“How could I have been so foolish?” John rolled his eyes.

Another look flashed on Sherlock’s face, as if a lightbulb had gone off above his head. He stalked towards John, then abruptly changed course. He paced the room, muttering to himself, gesticulating wildly.

John blinked, then broke out into hysterical laughter.

His luck, as fate would have it, was shit. 

The most gorgeous man he’d ever laid eyes on was absolutely _insane_. A madman. Of epic proportions. When Sherlock had mentioned the hotel, John thought it meant some more meaningless sex. It was the normal assumption, after all. But John was quick to learn that nothing about the night, or Sherlock, was status quo.

The best thing to do now was leave. Put the wallet down, walk away from this whole failed situation, and forget his lapse in judgment. It was the most rational course of action.

But, much like jumping feet-first out of a helicopter and liking it, John wasn’t exactly in possession of a rational mind.

He had three days of liberty before he had to report back to the Keys. Time was precious when there wasn’t much of it left. Spending one night with Sherlock—having sex, being yelled at, whatever—seemed like a waste. It should have put a bitter taste in his mouth, but it didn’t.

Instead, curiosity burned inside of him like nuclear reaction. Unstoppable and dangerous. 

And he never did shy away from a little danger, now, did he?

Decision made, John flipped the wallet open, carded through the contents, then frowned deeply.

“Sherlock,” he said heavily, “why in the bloody hell do you have Colonel Hudson’s wallet?”

 

* * *

 

“Colonel Hudson’s son, Matthew, passed away several weeks ago. He was a type 1 diabetic since childhood, but was otherwise fit and in good health. Imagine everyone’s surprise when he dies of severe diabetic hypoglycemia,” explained Sherlock dryly. He swirled a spoon in his tea, but hadn't touched it otherwise.

John stared at Sherlock over his own mug of coffee, taking in this new information. He had dragged Sherlock to a diner on the same street as the hotel after discovering who the wallet belonged to, and demanded compensation for his time in explanations and food.

Explanations, because John knew of Colonel Hudson. He’d been John’s temporary Officer-in-Charge for the Joint Forces training exercise before a mysterious family emergency arose. A fact, John suspected, Sherlock already knew.

“Accidents _do_ happen,” John pointed out, enjoying his time playing devil’s advocate to Sherlock’s blunt terms. “It’s not always murder, believe it or not. Why do you have a fixation with that, anyway? Mm, don’t answer that. Perhaps he gave himself too much insulin before bed.”

“An entire pen-full?” sneered Sherlock. “Highly doubtful. Even someone like you couldn’t make that mistake.” 

“Oy, rude,” grumbled John, but his feelings weren’t all that hurt. “How do you know he—or the killer—used an entire pen?”

Sherlock waved his hand as if swatting John’s ignorance away. “He refilled his prescription that day. The empty pen was what he’d picked up earlier. Unless he was binge-eating, and impressively so, I might add, it’s unlikely he’d go through eighty units in twenty-four hours.” 

John nodded. What Sherlock said was true. Eighty units of fast-acting insulin was quite a bit for one day—and definitely enough to kill even a large man if given in one dose. “So are you with Interpol, then?”

“What? _”_ Sherlock said it like it was the greatest insult to his character he’d ever heard.

“You’re holed up in some Miami hotel with a wallet from the father of a dead man—let’s not even go into _how_ you acquired said wallet—and you’ve been ranting and raving that some bloke’s accidental death was actually an episode from _Midsomer Murders_ for the past twenty minutes—”

“—An _episode_?”

“—And now you’re divulging clues that are, no doubt, extremely vital to the case. How could you know all that you know without being some kind of...” He flapped his hand, trying to convey his meaning. “Some kind of police force.”

“A brilliant observation, except you couldn’t be more wrong.” Sherlock huffed and slumped (gracefully, if that could be believed) in his seat. “There _is_ no _case_ , John. The death of Matthew Hudson was closed as a tragic accident.”

John frowned. “A private investigator, then?”

Sherlock clinked the teaspoon against the rim of his cup. “No. A consulting detective.”

“Never heard of it. Pays well, then?”

Sherlock averted his eyes. “I receive payment in other forms.”

“I see.”

“You have questions,” stated Sherlock. “Specifically, what am I doing in Miami with a closed case, if I am neither a PI or Interpol agent?”

“That,” agreed John with a terse nod, “and why did you pick me up? At the bar. I can’t help you.”

“I do work with the police in London from time to time,” sniffed Sherlock. “But I’m here as a favour. Someone else believes Matthew Hudson was snuffed out before his time. This case is much simpler than the lot I usually take on, but I could hardly refuse when asked. Now I just need to convince these simple-minded policemen that something is amiss, but the tip hotline operator will no longer speak with me…”

John snorted in laughter, and Sherlock levelled him with an icy glare. “Must be one hell of a friend to get you from London to Miami,” remarked John. “It’s a long flight, from what I remember.” 

“Not a friend,” replied Sherlock. “I’m repaying a debt of sorts. Are you finished?”

“What?” The change in conversation left John's head spinning.

“Eating. Are you finished _eating_?" Sherlock repeated, exasperated. If he rolled his eyes any more, John feared they would pop out of their sockets. "You haven’t touched your food in seven and a half minutes.”

John ducked his head to discover two things: his plate was only half-finished, and he was no longer hungry.

“Clear up. We’ve wasted enough time as it is,” said Sherlock, a near-manic grin on his face. “It’s high time I return stolen property.”

“Right,” mumbled John, but jumped out of the booth after Sherlock anyway.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until after Sherlock had hailed a cab, stuffed John in the back, and directed them to the Miami Beach Marina that John realised Sherlock had successfully avoided his line of questioning.

Was Sherlock being purposefully obtuse? Probably, thought John. He’d barely known Sherlock longer than four hours, but his (annoying) habit of divulging information only when it best suited him was quite obvious. In the grand scheme of things, John knew Sherlock had a plan for his presence. John might not have the capability to leap to conclusions like Sherlock, but he wasn’t stupid.

Sherlock knew John was in the RAMC, and had taken John with him for some purpose (which was not to have more sex; obvious). Sherlock also knew who Colonel Hudson was, and that Matthew Hudson was his son. And another player believed Matthew’s death to be suspicious.

A pen full of insulin, thought John. A pen full of insulin taken by a long-time diabetic; someone who would know better than anyone not to overdose.

The pieces of the puzzle were laid out in front of him, but John felt like he was overreaching for the answers, about to tumble over a cliff into a horrid headache. He sighed. Even as a child, he never was one for solving mysteries. Running headlong into trouble was more his fare, according to Harry. This time, however, it looked like trouble had found him, and he was tagging along. He’d followed Sherlock thus far, blaming it on drunken highs and hormones, but where else was the man going to take him, and how far would John run along?

Sherlock was barely an arm’s length away in the backseat, but he felt much farther away than that. The attentive look he’d supplied John with at the bar was now directed out the window, a loosely curled fist underneath his pointed chin. The fluorescent lights from the marquees outside threw Sherlock’s profile into sharp relief; his impossibly pale skin against the bright neon glow gave the impression of being translucent. He looked distracted, perhaps a touch apprehensive, and younger than he’d looked all night.

Why the hell am I going along with this? thought John. I can't possibly be _that_ desperate for the off-chance of another shag.

Though legally sober at this point, the reality of what John was doing doused him with cold, fresh awareness. Clearly, he'd made the wrong choice in the hotel, and been swept up in the river of curiosity when Sherlock had wagged the wallet under his nose like a steak to a dog. The rational side of John, the one that often warred with John's adrenaline-seeking side, gave a metaphorical sigh of relief that its warnings were finally, _finally_ being acknowledged.

Sherlock’s glanced over at John. “Problem?” he asked.

"Yes!" cried John angrily—though it was anger at himself, not Sherlock. "I don't know you, you don't know me—and yet here I am, going to drop off a sodding wallet!" 

"Ah," murmured Sherlock. "I was wondering when you'd panic."

"I'm not panicking. I've become aware of my situation, and I really ought to be going," said John, trying to signal the cabbie, who was used to raucous fares (having worked the strip for several years), and was paying them no mind.

Sherlock brought John's hand down. "It's Colonel Hudson."

John gaped, head spinning once more. "What?"

"Hudson murdered his son," repeated Sherlock, then went on: "Matthew recently outed himself. Hudson had dreamt of his son following his career path—with the diabetes, impossible anyway. His homosexuality was the figurative last straw."

John clamped his hands over his ears. Juvenile, yes, but also extremely effective. "I don't want to hear this.”

Sherlock snatched one of John's hands away from his ear, and pressed it firmly into the seat. "Hudson is a bigot. He was charged in 1981 and 1982 with aggravated assault, in the vicinity of notorious 'gay hotspots'. He was a Second Lieutenant at the time, and while assault is generally viewed as unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman, his charges were swept under the rug due to the circumstances. I need more data, John. He did it. He is the only suspect that makes sense, that fits the pattern, has access and motive. The hard evidence evades me, and the blasted fool remains the picture perfect farce of a mourning father!" 

John yanked his hand out from underneath Sherlock's. "Stop. Just stop talking, you heartless bastard," he growled. "It's not an act. He wouldn’t murder his own son!"

"He would, and he did," Sherlock snapped back. "But I can’t prove it just yet."

John shifted in his seat, defeated. There was no use in arguing with the unreasonable. 

"And I require your… assistance," said Sherlock slowly, looking pained at having to admit even that. "I have to examine the Colonel's office. I'd planned on borrowing your ID and shuttling it back up before you'd noticed its absence, but I've come to the conclusion that you may be more helpful by my side. You've acquiesced to all of my demands thus far, and I feel that I’m not wrong in saying you’ll agree to the next."

"Looking past the fact that theft is a punishable offense, as is breaking and entering," growled John, using the tone of voice he often used to get sloppy corporals in line, "you propositioned me at a bar, turned into bloody _Peter Wimsey_ , and now you’re trying to get me to believe my superior officer murdered his own son! Why should I help you? You’re—you’ve been brilliant, I’ll give you that, but I have three more days of freedom before I’m back to _business_. And if you don't give me a damn good reason, right now, I will open this door and throw myself out." 

“John, the way these vehicles are designed, it would be impossible for you to open the door while it’s still in motion,” explained Sherlock, but the usual bite to his words was lacking. Still, he didn’t look nearly as chastised as John thought he should.

“Sparkling explanation, Miss Marple,” replied John. “Just what I was looking for.”

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed together, and his lips pressed into a thin line. John almost heard the cogs whirring in his brain. "Keeping your company this long was not my initial intention, but you’ve been— _useful_.”

“Useful,” echoed John.

“Yes.” Sherlock tapped an indistinct beat on his knee. “I had a habit, John.”

“I’m not following.”

“Oh, of course not.” Another sneer.

Then John looked. Really looked. The downward tilt of Sherlock’s mouth; the light purple bruising underneath his eyes; the pallor; his cheekbones (he’d noticed before, but not how unnaturally prominent they were); the way his clothes fell a little _too_ loosely from his body.

"A habit," croaked John, and suddenly everything made sense. The more than friendly banter at the bar (the blown pupils), the cold withdrawal in the lengthy cab ride afterwards (the fidgeting hand), his irate attitude the rest of the night (waspish and short-tempered for no reason at all).

Sherlock made a noise, between a growl and a grunt. He eyed John, calculating and wary. “Yes, John, a habit. I was ‘clean’ until recently,” he explained, then looked away again as if to hide the shortcomings of his willpower. “The conclusion of this case, however simple, has evaded me for longer than I'd expected. It was too tempting, to take a little, to clear my head and _think_.” 

“Do you have any more?” asked John.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “But your alcoholic brother—“

“No, you idiot, not for me… do you have any more that might tempt you? So I can bin it?” 

Sherlock shook his head 'no', a plain look of honesty. John sighed in relief, but his relief was short-lived as his brain backtracked to what Sherlock had said.

“How the hell did you know about my—well, sister, actually?”

“Childhood picture in your wallet, and a guess. A poor one, in hindsight. You reached for your trouser pocket when you realised what my ‘habit’ entailed.” 

“Sherlock,” started John, then trailed off uncertainly. He wasn't sure what to say. Thoughts of Harry, drunk and in trouble, raced through his mind, tossing accusations in their wake. Sherlock hadn’t given him any real reason to stay, but how could he abandon him?

The rational side of him argued that it was only another excuse for John to keep tagging along, to get into more trouble, that Sherlock was manipulative and strong arming him with things he had no basis to know, but John squashed his doubts with his heavy moral standards. Just one more night, to make sure Sherlock stayed on the straight and narrow.

The cab screeched to a halt, and John nearly brained himself on the headrest in front of him.

“The Marina,” intoned the cabbie. “Cash or credit?”

The silence in the backseat stretched on, and then some, until the cabbie threatened to run the metre again.

“You're not going to murder me tonight, are you?” asked John.

Sherlock cracked a smile. “Not on purpose.”

If that statement wasn't disconcerting, John wasn't sure what was. But it was good enough. “Lead on, then,” he said. He tossed a few bills over the seat to cover the cost of the trip, and scrambled out of the taxi.

 

* * *

 

They bypassed the guard shack at the Marina easily. The guard, Earl, nodded to Sherlock and greeted him by name. A few pleasantries were exchanged, where John was at the butt of the joke, and he laughed along though none of it was remotely funny. As soon as Earl waved them through, the friendly tilt of Sherlock’s mouth fell away completely, and morphed into a look of utter derision.

“Another friend?” asked John.

“Don’t be daft, John. It’s unbecoming.”

Sherlock kept up a swift pace after that.

There were rows upon rows of yachts after the main gangway. The largest ones were furthest down, gleaming white under the lamps, bobbing gently in the waves. John hadn't seen anything like it before, and might've gaped longer if Sherlock hadn't thrown him dirty looks every time he seemed even a little awestruck.

Finally, they reached a small boat named _The Five Corgis_. She was a clean little thing, and paled in comparison to the boats next to her in the slips, but John thought she was rather quaint.

Sherlock stepped over onto the deck, and motioned for John to follow. He knocked on the lower door, which led into the _Five’s_ undercarriage.

“Mrs Hudson?” he called, then repeated himself twice more.

The lock jangled, and then the door was pulled inwards. An older woman stood on the top step. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she'd been crying for some time, but the look on her face was steely.

“Sherlock, dear, you've come,” she said. Her eyes darted over to John. “And you've brought along a friend.”

“Hello,” greeted John, his voice a strange mixture between condolence and cheerfulness. “John Watson.” 

“He’s here to assist in the investigation,” explained Sherlock. Then added: “He's a doctor.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed, eyes brimming with tears once more. “Come in, boys, please. Make yourselves at home. I'll be with you in a minute.”

Once in the cramped sitting room—which was more of a cushioned bench across from the tiny kitchenette—John leaned over to hiss in Sherlock’s ear, “She’s the concerned party? The mother of the deceased? And how did you know I'm a doctor? I never said anything.”

“She heard her husband say, ‘I will kill him with my own hands’, then saw him load a gun,” Sherlock whispered back. “And it’s fairly obvious. Sandhurst graduate; medical degree.” 

“Can’t get any more obvious than death threats said under emotional duress, now, can we? And I thought the murder weapon was an insulin pen,” murmured John. “And have I told you recently that you’re brilliant?”

“Not ten minutes ago,” sniped Sherlock, but preened nevertheless.

Once Mrs Hudson returned (which involved little more than her turning around in the compartment), she handed both Sherlock and John a cup of tea. Sherlock asked her to retell her story, which she did in great detail.

The short version was: Mr Hudson overheard Matthew's confession, and flew into a blind rage. A week later, Matthew was dead, and Mrs Hudson moved onto the family boat.

Mrs Hudson repeated several times that she knew, deep down in her bones, that her husband was the culprit. “A mother knows,” she said tearfully. “The rat bastard did it. He killed my baby boy because he fancies— _fancied_ other men. He deserves to be shot where he stands.”

John found that he had a great deal of respect for Mrs Hudson after that. While clearly devastated at the loss of her only child, she was fighting tooth and nail to bring him the justice she thought he deserved.

“Thank you for speaking with us,” said John, once she’d ushered them back outside.

“Thank you for listening,” she replied. “Sherlock, I’ve been talking to that police sergeant you pointed me to. He insists he has no probable cause to suspect anything... and the autopsy report...”

“Ah, the police are too lazy to bother themselves, as per usual. Worry not, Mrs Hudson; as long as he can overlook breaking and entering, we may have a case yet.” Sherlock handed her estranged husband’s wallet over to her. “For you.”

Mrs Hudson sniffed. “Cheeky monkey,” she said, turning the wallet over in her hands. Then, with a great big sigh, she tossed it overboard. “A Christmas present, four years ago. From his sister. Never liked the damned thing.”

“Very tacky,” noted John, and, to his great surprise, Mrs Hudson burst into the sort of surprised laughter of a person caught completely off-guard. John joined in, the entire evening spinning through his brain like a giant question mark, and was soon wiping tears from his eyes. 

It was laughter for all the good and the bad; the terrible things in the world that make a person laugh because the only alternative is to cry. It was a refreshing break to the insanity of his night, and John’s emotional palate was cleansed right then and there.

He caught Sherlock’s eye, mid-giggle, and saw that the burning intensity from the bar was back. Something he’d said or done pleased him. John’s stomach twisted delightfully. It was usually his first sign of oncoming trouble.

He bumped shoulders with Sherlock on their walk back to the Marina entrance.

“What a remarkable woman,” said John, once they were out of earshot.

“Mm,” agreed Sherlock. “I'm consistently surprised when in her company.”

“You can say that twice.” John grinned. “So, why did you have his wallet, anyway?”

“For the keycard, of course.”

“Keycard?”

“For the breaking and entering. Come on, John. Do please try to keep up.”

“I never agreed to break in anywhere.”

“That’s somewhat the point.”

“I don’t think it is...”

“Come along.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock flew down the pier, John jogging behind to keep up with the new adrenaline rush he’d found.

 

* * *

 

John’s self-made promise of keeping Sherlock on the straight and narrow was soon forgotten.

They were creeping about in the middle of the night, after all, and John had a feeling that high treason would be the charge if he were caught (yes, Sherlock had finally convinced him to break in under the pretense that they technically had a key so it wasn’t _really_ that terrible). He held a small torch with his teeth, and was rifling through filing cabinets while Sherlock did much the same across the room. 

The steps on how they’d reached this point still thoroughly eluded John. Between trailing after Sherlock and trying to survive on three hours of sleep and all the coffee he could buy, John realised he’d become _fond_ of the man. Very, very fond. It wasn’t a sudden realisation, like a light bulb blinking on, but the slow creep of dawning that made him snap his fingers and say, _Ah, yes,_ when he finally put two and two together. Which, insanely enough, didn’t take very long to come about.

The attraction was still there, as were the fantasies of pressing him up against an alley wall and kissing him cross-eyed, but the better part of his attention was focused on how amazingly, blindingly _brilliant_ Sherlock was.

Not to say he was perfect. Sherlock was no saint.

He was manipulative; the most manipulative person John had ever met. Even his baby cousins who threw tantrums and paused mid-wail to verify that _someone_ was paying attention couldn’t hold a candle to Sherlock’s brand of manipulation. He ramped up the charm when needed, turned it off just as quickly, and had no qualms about insulting the very person he’d been charming not two seconds ago. He’d insulted John numerous times, then insisted he was merely making observations of fact—and they’d only been acquainted for a day. A long day, but a day nevertheless.

Still, it was the best day John had had in many a month.

John sighed and plucked the torch from his mouth. “Have you found anything?” he whispered.

Sherlock ignored him in favour of a stack of papers.

John glanced around the office with a frustrated sigh, shining his light here and there. He walked over to the Colonel’s desk and picked up a picture frame. It displayed Hudson in his younger years, an arm slung across another man’s shoulders; they were both wearing cadet uniforms. It reminded John of his own time at Sandhurst, only a few years prior. There was something awfully familiar about the man next to Hudson, he thought suddenly. John squinted, and tilted the frame left and right, trying his best to pinpoint where he’d seen the man before.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

Again, Sherlock ignored him. John marched over and stuck the picture underneath his nose.

“I’ve seen this man before,” said John. “Do you recognise him?”

Sherlock pressed the picture away from his face with a reluctant sigh, like a harried parent obliging to look at whatever their child has offered them. “It’s Hudson, at his West Point graduation. I would say thirty pounds lighter, and thirty years younger. Perhaps that settles the matter?”

John pursed his lips, reining in his temper. He counted to ten before he spoke next. “I know that, you git. The man next to him.” 

Sherlock leaned in again. He tilted his head to the side. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “That’s—oh, John, you’re brilliant. I knew you’d maintain your usefulness. I never even thought to—yes, of course he would have an accomplice!” 

“An accomplice?” repeated John.

“The police chief, John,” said Sherlock, grabbing John about the shoulders and squeezing. “Hudson went to school with him. Who better to assist an old friend with murder than the chief of police?”

“The chief of police murdered Matthew now,” replied John dully.

“No, Hudson injected his son. Of that, I am sure. The angle of precisely three injection sites would be impossible to self-administer, and only for a person 180 centimetres or taller,” explained Sherlock. “The autopsy report never matched the police findings. Mindful negligence. We must get back to the city. Now.”

The leaps of logic Sherlock took were staggering, but his dashing out of the office into the hangar bay was no surprise to John. He carefully wiped the picture frame on his shirt—it’s what they did in police dramas, no point in being careless—and set it back down on the desk in a fair imitation of how he’d found it. With that, he clicked the torch off, and made haste after Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

“John... John. _John._ ”

John opened his eyes. He was back in Sherlock’s hotel room without any recollection of how he got there. Light streamed in through the blinds, but there was no way to tell if he’d been out for a day, or a week.

Sherlock leaned into his line of sight. “Good, you’re awake.”

John groaned as his memory caught up with him. “You left me face-down on the cement with a profusely bleeding head wound to chase after the chief of police, didn’t you? I could have died.”

“You have remarkable memory,” commented Sherlock. “And it was for the best. You don’t wish to testify at Hudson’s trial, do you?”

“I’m not being charged with anything?”

“What is there to charge you with?” asked Sherlock. “It’s as if you were never there.”

“That’s good. I think.” John sat up and touched the back of his head gingerly. A giant knot and blood-matted hair was the worst of it. “What happened?”

“I threw a paint can at your attacker,” replied Sherlock, shrugging carelessly. “I missed.”

“Of course you missed. I was almost shot! And Colonel Hudson? The police chief?” 

“No one knew they were friends. Both arrested. Justice shall be served swiftly. Once the public hears the story, they will be calling for heads to roll.”

John wanted to be angry, but there wasn’t anything to be upset about. He wasn’t dead, Hudson would be dealt with, and the universe was aligned with all the good things in the world. Instead, John fought the rising nausea the situation inspired in him. It was clear that Matthew’s murder was no crime of passion. His father had carefully thought out the plan, executed it, and turned to an old friend to clear his name.

“So this is what you do,” said John heavily. “As a consulting detective. You run around finding killers and the like.”

Sherlock tensed up, but it was so subtle John almost missed it. He did very well at wiping his face of emotions, but John was a fantastic poker player, and knew a bluff when he saw one. Yes, Sherlock was no saint, but he wasn’t inhuman. He didn’t need a friend or a partner, or want one, but it was hard to deny that maybe, just maybe, he’d found someone to share the insanity with. Even if it would only be for a weekend. For even though Sherlock had left John to his own devices in the hangar bay after effectively concussing him, Sherlock had come back, at some point, to retrieve him. 

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Sherlock,” said John. Even to his own ears, he sounded like a love-sick schoolgirl. “You’re rude, and quite possibly insane, but... I don’t have to report back until Monday. If you’re still consulting, perhaps I could be useful?” 

Sherlock’s predatory smile was almost enough for John to reconsider his offer, but the kiss that followed was more than effective at shutting him up. He leaned into Sherlock’s embrace, sighing into his mouth, and leaving all his propriety on the wayside.

Monday would come sooner than expected, John knew, and it really would be the end. No more trouble, no more Sherlock, no more chasing after long legs in the darkness of a foreign city. But that was fine.

He would always have Miami.  



End file.
